


Catcalls

by Senket



Series: Melody [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:01:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John traces the sound of music to the men's washroom and has his first real interaction with Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catcalls

John wandered through the concert hall, listening to the echo of voices as the players dispersed, walking in threes or fours as they slid out various exits. He felt the silence fall with a final slam of the door- paused for a moment before breathing in through his nose. God, but why hadn’t he brought his clarinet?

He exhaled, long and weary, rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair, tilting his head back. There was something, sometime unexplainable, something undeniable about this place or these people. Something that felt like Music, like the dark bassoon hiding beneath the bright piccolo, pulling him deeper into the mystery; like a piece he dreamed about but had yet to write down, lurking somewhere under his memory. Something familiar and different and required.

‘Just listen to me,’ he thought with a scoff. ‘I’ve lost my mind.’

He wouldn’t mind at all staying, writing for just them the way Doctor Lestrade had passively mentioned. He wanted to, even.

God, he should really go, start thinking about what to write, who to concentrate on. The shy double bass with a nice stuttered, understated melody developing into something surprisingly rich? The young, bright flautist (what was her name? Mary?) with a fairy tune?

John shook himself out. Best think about it tomorrow. Wait a little more. Get to know the ensemble. ‘Don’t rush yourself, John Watson, you remember what happened last time.’

John gathered his bag, slinging the satchel over one shoulder as he moved towards the front entrance, preferring to enter and exit like the audience rather than a member of the orchestra. Little things like that changed the experience so much.

He paused when he heard an unusual strain of notes, cocking his head to the side. Violin. Strange motion- atonal, directionless, all fast motion and irritated jumps. He followed the train of sound like a man tracking a ghost, eyes unfocused, walking with a lazy uncertain step, quiet.

Followed the crescendos with his chest, the decrescendos by sinking into his hips. Came to a stop in front of a wooden door, pressing his hand against the brass handle. He drew in a breath, gathered himself properly, and pulled.

Pale eyes stared back at him, a white mouth drawn tight as the violinist continued to play, undaunted by the appearance of another man.

John stared, unabashed. This was insane.

“A whole concert hall and you play in the john?”

The young man immediately ceased to play- apparently merely to sneer at John. “A whole concert hall and the architect manages to make the best resonance in the men’s washroom.” The distain in his voice gave John a flash of pity towards the unknown architect.

“What were you playing?” John asked, intensely curious. Contemporary music, despite being his guilt pleasure, was very rarely played, especially by big-time musicians. Philip Glass, of course, John Cage, yes, but he would’ve recognized any of those pieces. “It didn’t sound familiar.”

“No,” the violinist answered, raising a cool, unimpressed eyebrow. “It wouldn’t.”

“Whose was it, then?”

“Mine.”

John paused- then smiled. A surprisingly small amount of premier violinist (at least that he knew personally) had ever even tried their hand at seriously composing, certainly not something so strange to play. “Is it? What’s it called, then?”

Sherlock seemed distinctively put off by the question, raising his instrument back to his shoulder, glancing at himself in the mirror. “I hadn’t bothered to name it, seeing as I had just made it up.”

“...Ah.” Plucking notes out of thin air, making a cohesive atmosphere, a cohesive melody, a natural line, without the conventions of scale? God, he had to work on a piece for weeks to catch that feeling. What sort of sound did this creature have in his head?

“Stop creating conjecture so loudly,” the first violinist snapped. When John glanced at him, the man was glaring at him via reflection. “It’s atrocious.”

“Sorry, I-“ he sighed, shaking his head. This was absolutely ridiculous and he couldn’t be making a worse impression if he tried. He smiled instead, though he knew it looked a little strained. “I thought it sounded terrific, and I just hoped...”

His smile turned brighter when the man blinked at him, scratching through dark curls with the tip of his bow. He looked a little wary, certainly surprised. “Pardon?”

John’s smile was fully genuine now, warmed. “My personal favourite pieces are pitch class sets, but all anyone ever wants to hear is baroque. I- hearing it from elsewhere.” John stepped closer, hands flexing around his bag. “You’re very good, you know that, but- you say you just created that, now, out of thin air? Amazing.”

The man turned to look at him properly, tapping his bow against his leg. His gaze sharpened for a moment- John held his breath, wondering what this feeling meant, like being under a microscope, ridiculous- before he slumped, looking away.

John released his breath, tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously. He moved closer, leaning against the line of sinks as he looked at the long-limbed man. “I’m John Watson, by the way. Composer.”

“Yes. My fat brother hired you.” He looked bored now, cutting through the air with his bow, watching the way the slim wooden bar bent and flexed.

“Um.” John licked his lips again, tucking his hands into his pocket. He’d hardly call Mycroft Holmes anything nearing that. “Yes..?”

“Is that meant to be a question or a reply?”

John didn’t respond, but the man (a something Holmes, presumably) proceeded without trouble. “And what are you writing for us, Mr John Watson?”

“That’s Doctor,” he shot back on instinct as he mulled the question over (missing the roll of the violinist’s eyes) “and I don’t know yet. A concerto of some kind.”

Sherlock sneered, having gone back to staring at John through the mirror, idly plucking at his violin strings. “No doubt. John Watson, man of the muse.”

John blinked, paused, stilted. What did that mean? “Sorry?”

Turning again to look at John, Sherlock’s smile was hard and a little sharkish. “You are a composer who cannot write a piece without inspiration.”

“Is that bad?”

“Predictable,” Sherlock answered sharply. “And your way of going about it. Nothing to do with music at all. You’ve already been shot down by Amanda, no doubt. But why go for her in the first place? She plays mechanically, without feeling. Basing an entire concerto around her harp? Ridiculous. And who else did you have in mind? Pretty Morstan, the flautist? Little Molly, baby Molly, who no doubt reminds you of your first girlfriend? No accounting for taste, anyway.”

At some point during that diatribe, John had gone from being surprised to irritated to decently insulted. He tried to protest but Sherlock cut him off with a flick of his head.

“You lose yourself in music and sex because there’s nothing else in your life that draws you. Nothing else can move you.”

“Mr Holmes-”

The man stepped closer, scant inches away. His expression had changed minutely, and John wasn’t sure absolutely how, but that change rippled through the room, charged with something like lightning. John felt like he was burning up from sheer proximity. Sharp grey eyes inspected John, caught the smallest of twitches, the sharp jut of John’s left shoulder, the soft line of his mouth, the blond-brown bristles of merest stubble.

“But I can,” he said, low and dangerous and thrilling, making John shudder just from the sound of it. Sherlock looked impassive, merely an observer, gaze sharp and cold as an iceberg, as winter wind. Stepped closer, and John felt the heat blaze between them. “I can like none of those women you’ve written for. I can play you like my violin. And it would be. So. Easy.”

John went weak just from the thought of it. He sank back against the counter, knowing he was hard and knowing Sherlock didn’t have to look to know it just as well.

The barest of smirks flashed across Sherlock’s pale lips- he leaned forward, dark curls brushing against John’s cheek as he breathed aphrodisiac into John’s ear. “I could make you howl with grief, make you cry out in ecstasy.”

John shook with need, gripping the edge of the counter, white-knuckled, desperate, knowing that if he gave in and tried to grab, Sherlock would be gone just as quickly.

“The best part is, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock added, pressing the tip of his bow against John’s lips, careful to keep the horse hair far from skin, “is that I won’t even need to touch you to do it.”  
John’s hips jerked involuntarily.

Sherlock vanished, leaving John with only the image of darkly-amused grey eyes and a wicked smirk.


End file.
